The elf, stripped of his strength, crawled desperately across the dirt, every movement agonizing as he tried to escape the inevitable. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and the weight of the situation pressed down on him. Behind him, an adventurer clad in worn armor stood silently, watching the elf's futile struggle. The adventurer was an orphan, though when exactly he became one had faded from his memory. It had been a long, long time ago, but in his heart, it somehow felt like it was just yesterday.
He recalled fragments of a past life, hazy but filled with warmth. His parents had sacrificed everything to give him a future. They sold their house, their farm, and all their possessions to start anew on the frontier, hoping to build a better life for their son. The reward for pioneering these dangerous lands was substantial; enough to support an ordinary family for fifty years, if they could survive the challenges. For a time, they lived a simple, happy life. His father was an honest man, skilled at raising poultry, and his mother had a green thumb, growing crops that thrived under her care. Together, they built a life, humble but peaceful.
As a child, the adventurer dreamed of becoming strong enough to protect them, to guard their newfound fortune so they could all live happily ever after. He never sought riches or glory. All he wanted was to live without regret, to die knowing he had kept his family safe. But reality, as it so often does, began to tear that dream apart.
In the first year, everything started to go wrong. The weather turned against them with an unpredictable ferocity, like the flip of a coin. The crops that his mother had so carefully tended wilted and died in the sudden frost, snuffed out in a matter of days. Winter arrived early and with a vengeance. The only thing that saved them from starving was his father's poultry, and the food stores the city had prepared to help settlers through their first hard year. Their house, though flimsy, kept the worst of the bitter winds at bay. They ate what little they had, thin porridge, scraps of chicken and tried to keep their spirits high.
As the boy sat with his family, warming his hands over the fire, he remained blissfully unaware of the growing dread that clouded his parents' hearts. They never let him see the worry in their eyes, the fear that gnawed at them. His father and mother hid their anxiety behind forced smiles, unwilling to burden him with their concerns. To the young boy, it was simply a hard winter, nothing more.
He still dreamed that when spring came, he would go to the soldiers stationed at the nearby barracks, find someone who could teach him how to fight. He imagined learning how to wield a sword, how to protect his family, becoming the man he had always wanted to be.
But spring brought no reprieve. When the snows melted, the land did not recover. The soldiers who had once stood tall now looked gaunt, their horses no better. The few animals that hadn't succumbed to hunger let out pitiful whinnies as the boy passed by, their ribs jutting out beneath their dull coats. The city itself was waning, and yet, no one seemed to understand why.
If only someone had seen it sooner; seen the signs, noticed the slow drain of life from the crops and the land, realized that something unnatural was at work. Maybe then, someone would have ridden out for help, while the horses still had some strength. Maybe things could have been different. But no one did. It wasn't a lack of adaptation, it was a lack of understanding.
Except for those who knew the elves. They knew.
As the seasons turned again, the settlers did what they always did. They planted seeds with hope, toiled through the summer, and awaited the autumn harvest. But just as the crops began to bear fruit, they withered and died. The cycle repeated, and only then did the settlers realize something was terribly wrong. They tried using magical communication devices to call for aid, but every attempt failed. Even the magic itself was silent.
The horses, how could they have forgotten the horses? After a full year of neglect, someone finally remembered. A small portion of their dwindling food was given to the beasts. Slowly, painfully, the horses regained some of their strength, enough to carry a rider beyond the dead zone.
But even then, salvation was not in sight.
One brave soul mounted a half-starved horse and rode out in search of help. A glimmer of hope lingered in the hearts of those left behind, but it was short-lived. Days later, the rider's severed head was hung at the city gates, a grim message from the elves. The elves were not the benevolent, mysterious creatures the settlers had once believed them to be. They were the unseen force behind the land's sickness, their magic suffocating the crops and draining the life from the earth.
If the horse had been stronger, perhaps the elf who chased the rider might not have been able to catch him so easily. Perhaps the rider would have stood a chance, if only the horse had been properly fed. But it hadn't. And so, the rider's fate was sealed long before he left the gates.
The adventurer, once that hopeful boy, looked down at the fallen elf, his expression hard and distant. The memories of his childhood, his dreams, his family; they all felt like they belonged to someone else, a life long forgotten. He had become an adventurer, yes, but the man he had become was far from the boy who only wanted to protect his family.
Now, his sword was drawn, not in defense, but for survival. There was no room for regret, no room for those shattered dreams. Only the present moment remained, and in that moment, all that mattered was the enemy before him. The elf let out a weak gasp, crawling inch by inch, but the adventurer knew there was no escape.
"I don't ask for great wealth or honor," he muttered to himself, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter. "I just want to die without regrets." And with a swift strike, he ensured the elf would not live to see another day.
It was a hopeless chase. The creature, with its frail body, struggled to keep pace with the elves, let alone outrun them. Each step felt heavier than the last, its breath ragged in the cold air. This winter was harsher than the last, yet not the worst one it had endured. Not yet.
Food was scarce. There was less meat in the stew, less rice in the porridge, but the boy, naïve and blind to the signs; hadn't noticed. How could he have known? Back then, everything still seemed like it could get better. In the years that followed, he would look back on those days with bitter regret. If only he had known. If only he had understood what was really happening, maybe he would have cherished those final moments with his family more.
By the time the third spring arrived, their food stores were gone, completely depleted. The elves, bored of their cruelty, had stopped hunting the humans. But by then, it didn't matter. The damage had been done. The humans were trapped, their only ways of escape lost. The horses, once their lifeline, had succumbed to the brutal winter, their frozen bodies stiff in the snow. No one could say for sure whether the horses had starved or frozen to death; it hardly mattered. They were gone.
That year, no one bothered to plant crops. They had long since lost hope in miracles. Some, still clinging to life, gathered what strength they had left and left the settlement on foot. They believed that if they could just make it out, they might find salvation beyond the cursed land. No one knew what became of those who left. Did they succeed, or did they perish in the wilderness? Maybe they made it. Maybe they didn't. But if they had, they wouldn't return, for reporting back would break their contract, forfeiting the money they so desperately needed.
Summer came, and though the weather was not as strange as before, survival was no easier. The boy, now older but still so lost in the ways of the world, asked his parents why they hadn't fled with the others. His mother remained silent, while his father, weary and broken, simply shook his head.
"We have nothing left," his father said softly, his voice carrying the weight of years of suffering. "No house, no farm. Even if we go back, where would we go? What is there for us?"
That year, starvation gripped everyone. Every last morsel of food was gone. People, driven mad with hunger, ventured beyond the city walls, desperate enough to chew on the bark of the trees that still somehow clung to life. It was during one of these desperate days that the boy overheard a conversation, the words finally revealing the truth: the elves were behind it all. It was their magic, their spite, that had poisoned the land and left the humans to rot.
One person argued fiercely, saying it wasn't all elves, surely, there were some who wanted peace, some who might even help. But the boy, once so hopeful, felt something harden inside him. He echoed the same bitter words as the others: "If there are elves like that, then where are they? Why haven't they come to save us?"
By the fourth year, even the boy's dreams had withered like the crops. The sword that once hung proudly on the wall had rusted, its blade dull and forgotten. His dream of becoming a warrior to protect his family was fading fast, lost to the gnawing emptiness in his belly. He had grown too weak to hunt, though no one else had the strength to catch anything either.
His father had fallen ill, but it wasn't a disease that needed magic or potions to cure. He just needed food, a simple meal, something to give him strength and rest. But there was no food left. The plants were long gone, their seeds eaten in desperation. There were no potions, for the ingredients had been consumed or lost in the chaos.
Yet, even as hope flickered out, the boy held on to a sliver of belief. If they could just survive one more year, he thought, if they could just hold on a little longer, they might find a way out. He clung to that belief like a lifeline.
But reality was cruel. How could anyone survive without food? The crops had failed, the seeds eaten in a frantic attempt to stave off death. What came next was inevitable.
First, they turned to what remained of the plants, gnawing on bark and roots until even those were gone. And then, when there was nothing left to consume; no seeds, no crops, no animals, they turned to something darker. Something they had once thought impossible.
Human flesh.
The boy's hands trembled as the unspoken reality settled in, a horrifying clarity that had evaded him for so long. Survival demanded something far worse than any hunger they had known. The line between humanity and desperation blurred, and what came next would haunt him for the rest of his days, should he live to see the end of it.
The winter had claimed much, but in the face of starvation, it was clear: they would have to decide how far they were willing to go to survive.